


One Life on Sale

by Spartangal22



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 22:17:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4454465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spartangal22/pseuds/Spartangal22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and Sherlock carefully planned the information they gave to Moriarty, the information about Sherlock that was written in Kitty Riley's article and given to the world. How did they decide what to tell? What did they keep to themselves?</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Life on Sale

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing.

“There is a line, and that crosses it.”

“You are not a member of Parliament, this is not a debate, and there are less than two sword lengths between us.”

“That’s the origin of ‘ _toeing_ the line,’ not crossing it.”

“The next step past toeing is crossing; they derive from the same origin.”

“It’s a colloquial phrase. It’s not literal.”

“I am merely pointing out the problems posed when you use those…common idioms. This is a logical, practical discussion. If you think that you are right, prove it, don’t use abstract concepts to describe your… _feelings_ about the matter.”

Sherlock sighed loudly and pinched the bridge of his nose. Beside him, still staring intently at the computer screen, his brother rolled his eyes. “For God’s sake, Sherlock, don’t be so dramatic.”

“Why not?” Sherlock plopped into a chair, tired of lurking of Mycroft’s shoulder and realizing that his brother had been correct in estimating that the whole procedure would take them roughly 13 hours; Sherlock had thought they could have it done in nine. “According to all this,” he waved his hand at the screen. “That’s exactly what I am: dramatic, nosey, contrary, rude…have I missed anything?”

“Desperate for recognition, low self-esteem, in need of constant reassurance,” he brother rattled off.

“That was redundant.”

Mycroft glanced at him. “Yes. For emphasis.” When Sherlock sighed again, Mycroft turned in his chair to face him, hands in a steeple in front of him as if in prayer, though not in prayer, because Mycroft didn’t pray. “Why does it bother you so much what we tell him?”

“It doesn’t bother me,” Sherlock responded too quickly. Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “It doesn’t,” he asserted. “We need to give Moriarty the truth so that he believes he’s beaten us, and so that the public in turn believe him and his lie. That doesn’t bother me.”

“But you don’t like the account we are giving him.” It wasn’t a question. His brother, as much as he hated to admit it, knew him too well.

Sherlock hesitated, considering carefully before he chose any words to voice his thoughts. He didn’t have to be this careful around anyone else – John and Molly and Lestrade, they were intellectually inferior and if he ever made a flaw in logic, it passed them by. Mycroft dissected his words, picked them apart and twisted them into something that Sherlock hadn’t meant to say but was nonetheless true. If he didn’t hate people so much, he could be an excellent psychologist. Or politician. “If I were to compile anecdotes that showcased your isolation, instances of you demeaning those around you, situations where you stood out for one reason or another, I doubt you would find it a pleasant experience either.”

“Why should I care?” Mycroft countered, still watching him. “My isolation is self-imposed, those who I demean deserve it and rarely understand it, and I stand out for my intelligence, which is never a bad thing. No,” he shook his head. “There’s something else that bothers you about this.”

“No, there’s not,” Sherlock turned back to the computer screen. There were lists of stories for Mycroft to give to Moriarty, stories that only Mycroft (or their parents) would know: the homeschooling; the science experiments in the woods; the time he broke his ankle jumping into the creek and Mycroft had to carry him to their house (the most exercise he had all year, Sherlock insisted Mycroft include, but he knew he wouldn’t). Those were the childhood stories, only a small part of the information that Mycroft would give to Moriarty in exchange for names that they already knew. Sherlock and Mycroft’s spy network was almost as expansive as Moriarty’s web. They were selling Sherlock’s life, his reputation, in the hopes that Moriarty would confirm some of their suspicions and slip up and give them even one new piece of information.

In addition to his childhood, Mycroft would tell Moriarty about his time at university – about the acceptance letters and the scholarships (if any intrepid reporters wanted confirmation, they could go back to the newspaper records from that year; there were articles about the teen genius accepted at every member of the Russell Group. There were more articles when he didn’t attend any of them); his fencing championships.

Of course, if he talked about university, he had to talk about the drugs. Mycroft sat, stone-faced, as they discussed that part. Even years later, it irked him to talk about – how Sherlock got his first cigarette from Mycroft; how he first approached the men in the dark coats in the park not long after Mycroft left for university and how he held onto the stuff he bought that day for years, until he himself attended university and realized it wasn’t as great as thought it would be; how it was Mycroft, years later, he forced him into rehab because their mother cried every time she saw the marks on his arm.

They selected which cases would be included in the repertoire – his first unofficial case, when he’d helped the neighbor’s new nanny, miss Violet Smith, avoid an unpleasant suitor; his first official case with the police, when he helped Lestrade catch a key member of the notorious Red Circle by paying close attention to newspaper ads. They included the first “murder” he’d solved that had actually been an inadvertent swimming accident involving a jellyfish, and the time he’d discovered which of his classmates had stolen the answers to the Mr. Hilton Soames’ final exam, a revelation that had not made him incredibly popular amongst his peers.

There was more – his likes, his dislikes, his habits, his talents. Mycroft had a plethora of information to provide to Moriarty. He was well stocked for any situation or any question that might arise. Of course, Sherlock was fully aware that Mycroft could deviate from the script – he knew as much about Sherlock as Sherlock himself did – possibly more, as Sherlock did not remember his infant years, but Mycroft’s mind, already remarkable at age seven, recalled nearly everything he’d done or said. He’d told Sherlock a riveting story of when he was two and had entertained himself for a full afternoon by sitting in a mud puddle. _Mother thought it was…precious,_ he’d said with a smirk. _Until she saw you eating the worms._ The script was just a formality, something for Mycroft to look to if he felt like taking Sherlock’s opinions into account when in the interrogation room.

But as they were discussing now, he shouldn’t have opinions on this information. It was all factual – the only lie would come when Moriarty told the reporter that he was a fake. And that was a necessary lie. And this was necessary information. And Mycroft was right – it shouldn’t bother him. And Mycroft was right again – it did bother him.

“I can leave out the unsolved cases, if you’d prefer,” Mycroft offered. “Although thanks to your friend’s blog everyone knows that you haven’t solved every case you’ve worked on.”

“If he asks about the unsolved cases, tell him about the unsolved cases, but I doubt he will. He’s not interested in the cases at all, Mycroft. He’s wants…” Sherlock trailed off.

“You.” Both brothers cringed. Moriarty’s fascination with Sherlock was unsettling, to say the least. Neither brother could discern where or when or how it began, though Sherlock suspected that the criminal’s interest was piqued many years earlier, when Sherlock meddled in the Carl Powers case. He didn’t tell Mycroft this; saying aloud that the criminally insane genius had been monitoring him for over twenty years was rather alarming.

Regardless of what sparked Moriarty’s interest in Sherlock, that interest had grown to a full-blown obsession. The worst part wasn’t the articles cut out, or the blogs printed off, or the sniper-shot pictures plastered around his apartment – it was that the obsession was two-way, contagious. That Moriarty was suddenly occupying every corner of Sherlock’s mind, that his spare time was spent looking for the spider’s trails, that at night, if he couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Moriarty knew him more than he knew himself, more, maybe, than even Mycroft knew him. That they were similar. That there was something wrong with him too.

He needed Moriarty gone. To accomplish this, he had to sell Moriarty his life. Metaphorically. And literally. It was creepy, but it was necessary.

“I’ll keep the unsolved ones, then,” Mycroft said, glancing at the screen again. “Perhaps I can distract him with some of your failures.”

“Wonderful,” Sherlock muttered.

“Your reputation will be rebuilt, you know.” Sherlock looked up, unsure if that was meant to be comforting or not. He was getting better at reading people, but he still needed John’s input sometimes.

“I’m not concerned about my reputation,” he shrugged it off.

“Yes, you are. You only pretend not to be. That’s not a failing, Sherlock. Everyone is concerned with how they appear to others. What matters is that you do not cater to them. If they do not approve, it’s generally because they do not understand.”

“You’re concerned?” He challenged.

“Of course not. It’s beneath me.” Sherlock glanced at the door, which led down a hall to Mycroft’s treadmill, but he said nothing. “It used to be beneath you as well, but since you’ve started spending your time with so many ordinary people, it was bound to rub off on you as well.”

“I won’t be spending time with ordinary people for quite a while anymore,” Sherlock pointed out. He didn’t like to think about what would happen after Moriarty’s story broke. He’d found in his life that sometimes it was better not to think things through, especially things he couldn’t change. Sometimes it was better just to act.

Mycroft glanced at him again.“Is that what’s bothering you? That you won’t have your… _friends_ anymore?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Mycroft said ‘friends’ like a child said ‘butt.’ “This will protect them – John and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson.”

“What about your little hospital friend? Mary, is it?”

“Molly,” he corrected. “I don’t have to worry about her.” Sherlock had carefully left Molly out of his life story, and since not even Mycroft knew the extent of their friendship, he was confident that Moriarty would underestimate her. He’d already used (and hurt) Molly before; he wouldn’t want to get repetitive. That would be _boring._

“Do you suppose they’ll believe the stories? About you, being a fake, that is,” Mycroft clarified unnecessarily. He asked the question casually, with an air of scientific interest, but it was something that Sherlock had been considering very seriously. He wanted them to believe it – if they believed it, the public would believe it as well. He had to be just deceptive enough, just elusive enough, to make them question themselves. Their doubt was important.

He really, truly, very much did not want them to believe he was a fake.

He also wanted them alive. That came first.

“If we’ve done our job well, then yes, they’ll believe it, and we always do our jobs well,” Sherlock said. Mycroft nodded absentmindedly, popping a piece of chewing gum into his mouth. He only chewed gum when he was trying to lose weight. Sherlock would have to hide some chocolate bars around his brother’s house before he left.

“Back to the issue on hand,” Mycroft stated. “If it doesn’t bother you, like you’ve repeatedly said, then I don’t see why we can’t include-“

“ _That_ bothers me.”

His brother crinkled his forehead in confusion. “You’ve all but issued a declaration that this situation doesn’t bother you, Sherlock. Don’t be hypocritical now.”

“The situation doesn’t bother me, Mycroft. The inclusion of that particular bit of information does.”

“Why? Leaving it out is rather obvious – all he has to do is look into some official records and he’ll know.”

“He won’t look,” Sherlock said. “And he won’t care. We already established that this is not the kind of information he is concerning himself with.”

“Which is all the more reason for me to provide it – we can’t look like we are hiding anything.” “I’m not hiding this, Mycroft. I’m keeping it.” Mycroft leaned back in his chair, a look of exasperation on his face. “What, pray tell, is the difference, brother mine?”

Sherlock wasn’t sure how to explain it. It wasn’t something he would normally say, or feel. It was more like something John would understand. It was something John would know how to explain. “The difference, brother mine, is that this is mine. Moriarty can have everything else – he can have my cases and my family and my favorite color, for all I care. He’s going to have my reputation and my _life_ , my friends…but a man needs something.”

Mycroft studied him. “And this? This is what you chose to keep?”

Sherlock closed his eyes. “This would prove him right, Mycroft. This would prove that Sherlock Holmes really is a lie. John…Mrs. Hudson… they don’t know this. If they knew I’d lied all this time, they might believe it was all a lie.”

“You want them to believe that.”

Yes, he did. And he didn’t. “He can’t have it. Grant me that concession.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes again and turned back to the computer. “Fine, William. To the world, you will remain ‘Sherlock Holmes.’”

William Sherlock Scott Holmes smiled. A man had to have something when the rest of his life was on sale to the world.


End file.
